Brother Odd

indeed between here and that planet in another galaxy."
        "What about between here and Indianapolis?"
        "That, too."
        "Wow."
        "We just do not yet understand the quantum structure of reality sufficiently to achieve such miracles."
        "Most of us can't figure how to program a video recorder, so we probably have a long way to go on this here-to-another-galaxy thing."
        He finished frosting the second cake. "Quantum theory gives us reason to believe that on a deep structural level, every point in the universe is in some ineffable way the same point. You have a smear of mayonnaise at the corner of your mouth."
        I found it with a finger, licked the finger. "Thank you, sir."
        "The interconnectedness of every point in the universe is so complete that if an enormous flock of birds bursts into flight from a marsh in Spain, the disturbance of the air caused by their wings will contribute to weather changes in Los Angeles. And, yes, Mr. Thomas, in Indianapolis, as well."
        With a sigh, I said, "I still can't figure out what this has to do with cake."
        "Nor can I," said Romanovich. "It has to do not with cake but with you and me."
        I puzzled over that statement. When I met his utterly unreadable eyes, I felt as if they were taking me apart on a subatomic level.
        Concerned that something was smeared at the other corner of my mouth, I wiped with a finger, found neither mayonnaise nor mustard.
        "Well," I said, "I'm stumped again."
        "Did God bring you here, Mr. Thomas?"
        I shrugged. "He didn't stop me from coming."
        "I believe God brought me here," Romanovich said. "Whether God brought you here or not is of profound interest to me."
        "I'm pretty sure it wasn't Satan who brought me here," I assured him. "The guy who drove me was an old friend, and he doesn't have horns."
        I got off the stool, reached past the cake pans, and picked up the book that he had taken from the library.
        "This isn't about poisons and famous poisoners," I said.
        The true title of the book did not reassure me-The Blade of the Assassin: The Role of Daggers, Dirks, and Stilettos in the Deaths of Kings and Clergymen.
        "I have a wide-ranging interest in history," said Romanovich.
        The color of the binding cloth appeared to be identical to that of the book that he had been holding in the library. I had no doubt this was the same volume.
        "Would you like a piece of cake?" he asked.
        Putting the book down, I said, "Maybe later."
        "There may not be any left later. Everyone loves my orange-and-almond cake."
        "I get hives from almonds," I claimed, and reminded myself to report this whopper to Sister Angela, to prove that, in spite of what she believed, I could be as despicable a liar as the next guy.
        I carried my empty glass and bare plate to the main sink and began to rinse them.
        Sister Regina Marie appeared as if from an Arabian lamp. "I'll wash them, Oddie."
        As she attacked the dish with a soapy sponge, I said, "So Mr. Romanovich has baked quite a lot of sheet cakes for the lunch dessert."
        "For dinner," she said. "They smell so good that I'm afraid they're decadent."
        "He doesn't strike me as the kind of person who would enjoy a culinary pastime."
        "Perhaps he doesn't strike you that way," she agreed, "but he loves to bake. And he's very talented."
        "You mean you've eaten his desserts before?"
        "Many times. You have, too."
        "I don't believe so."
        "The lemon-syrup cake with coconut icing last week. That was by Mr. Romanovich. And the week before, the polenta cake with almonds and pistachios."
        I said, "Oh."
        "And surely you remember the banana-and-lime cake with the icing made from lime-juice reduction."
        I nodded. "Surely. Yes, I remember. Delicious."
        A sudden great tolling of bells shook through the old abbey, as though Rodion Romanovich had arranged for this clangorous performance to mock me for being so gullible.
        The bells were rung for a variety of services in the new abbey, but seldom here, and never at this hour.
        Frowning, Sister Regina Marie looked up at the ceiling, and then in the direction of the convent church and bell tower. "Oh, dear. Do you think Brother Constantine is back?"
        Brother Constantine, the dead monk, the